Hi everyone, I'm back with a new chapter. For some reason, this one flowed quite easily—I hope it makes for a good read.
Recap: Chapter 34 - Daddy Issues - 1999- You know your father almost as well as you know yourself, and the person standing there is David the conqueror. Every nuance of his body language and the icy, menacing tone of his voice confirms that he means what he says. "You're in my city, and you are inconsequential, a contemptible insect scurrying beneath my feet. No one will bat an eye when I wipe your brain off this marble floor. No one."
Just when you think there's a settled score
The battle has been reborn
Comes swift like an avalanche
Come to steal what you just got back
Like a loaded gun
And the night has just begun
Steady now breathe, breathe
This is the sound of war
Sound of War (feat. Fleurie) - Tommee Profitt
Chapter 66 -The sound of war
"If you must step, then step, if you must cheat, then cheat, if you must stump, then stump, and if you must kill, then kill. You want something, take it, nothing can stop you." That's the mentality of a conqueror.
This very thought swirls in your mind as you lean against the sturdy trunk of a tree, the tang of saltwater heavy in the air, blending with the rhythmic sounds of waves crashing against the shore. The scene before you is deceptively beautiful, with the ocean's ebb and flow painting a serene picture, if not for the tense activity unfolding behind you. Rick, Daryl, and Jesus are busy setting up the dynamite the group found, while Sasha scales the tallest tree with a sniper rifle slung on her back, much like you did when facing the Governor.
However, something doesn't sit right with you, a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach. It's not your presence here or the impending task at hand, but everything you've heard from Rick so far leading to this moment.
It seems like a lot has happened in the days you were at the kingdom, from the walkers on the highway—the very same walkers you led when the walls of Alexandria fell and abandoned on the highway, apparently unknowingly close enough to the sanctuary—to the explosions the Saviors set to redirect said walkers. To how the Scavengers have taken Gabriel, ambushing him right from the middle of Alexandria, after Rick and Aaron retrieved supplies from an abandoned boat on a creek. How The Scavengers put Rick on trial to see what he's capable of, what the group is capable of.
All of it doesn't quite sit right with you... like you're only seeing half a picture, like you're missing a piece of a puzzle. Why would they do that?
Perhaps you're overthinking this. Afterall, it's only been a day since your conversation with Rosita, a temporary truce she's granted you, and thank God she did because it was the next day when Rick arrived at the crack of dawn at Hilltop, bringing almost every able-bodied Alexandrian with him, in search of Jesus.
You were sorting through Doctor Carson's notes in the infirmary when the RV rolled up alongside a convoy of vehicles, your people armed and ready. Rick seemed surprised to find you there instead of at the Kingdom. And after brief greetings, he divulged his recent exploits—how he had found some guns and already made the initial delivery to the Scavengers, but not enough to win them over. Now he knows where he can find more guns, this time enough to arm the entire war effort.
A new group, he had said, as he glanced towards Tara, who nodded at you guiltily, confirming his words.
Unlike the Kingdom, Jesus is unaware of this group entirely composed of women, a community called Oceanside, as Tara mentioned. However, he does know where you can find canoes to cross over to the small beach island where they're settled.
"Their leader's name is Natalia, and she's a bit of a hard-ass," Tara's voice pulls you back to the present.
You hum in acknowledgment, brows pinched, feeling as though you're playing two separate chess games, your thoughts split between strategies. Rick has a plan to take their place, knowing full well they won't hand over their guns willingly. You agree with him and his plan; it seems to promise the least number of casualties. Or at least, that's what you hope for the sake of these women.
You meet Tara's gaze; her guilty expression remains unchanging. "But you gotta be ready if this goes south," you remind her, understanding the precarious nature of the mission. Throughout the ride here, she's been divulging everything she knows about Oceanside, at your request, including her unexpected arrival here after her separation from Heath.
"It won't! It won't!" Tara insists, shaking her head vehemently.
You understand her determination to protect these women from further harm—a sentiment deeply rooted in the tragic losses they have endured at the hands of the Saviors. These women have lost everything—their fathers, sons, brothers, husbands—every male figure, boys aged 10 and older to the Saviors.
Tara exhales heavily, her shoulders sagging. "Look, just a heads up—when I was here last, I told them about our community, what we had to offer, and… about you," she explains, pausing as your eyebrow arches. "...and the cure," she adds reluctantly, a grimace crossing her face as her words tumble out in her characteristic rapid-fire manner. "But before you get mad, just know they were going to kill me, and I knew they didn't want to. They didn't. They're good people, just scared by a stranger at their door. I thought if I could reach them, give them hope for the future, show them that we're good people too, then maybe our communities could be allies, even trade someday."
"And?" you prompt, your curiosity piqued as to their response.
Her face falls, the flicker of optimism fading. "They don't care about the cure," she admits, her voice trailing off. "It's like they're wounded animals, so deeply hurt by the world that all they know how to do is hide and face everyone with fear and aggression."
Before you can respond, Rick's voice slices through the air, bringing you back to the task at hand. "Tara, it's time," he announces with a decisive nod.
With a deep breath, you push yourself off the tree, only for Tara to thrust her fist at you. "We're cool, right?" she asks, and you look down at the fist bump still waiting for you.
"Yeah," you sigh, returning the bump. And with that, you follow her determined steps as the plan begins to unfold.
You position yourself beside Daryl, concealed among the trees and bushes, anticipation thrumming through the air like a live wire. "Hey, you okay?" Daryl asks, his hand landing on your back to rub comforting circles.
Your expression remains steadfast as you peer through the leaves. Although you can't see the community, you can see a trail of smoke wisping through the sky that signals human activity. "Yeah, it's up to them what happens here," you respond. The reality is clear; regardless of your sympathy, acquiring their guns is not just an opportunity but a necessity, regardless of the cost.
The rustle of leaves announces Rick's approach, Michonne close behind. "Alright, she's in," he states, binoculars hanging from his neck. "Her five minutes begins now." His gaze drops to his watch, marking the start of a critical countdown.
Five minutes. Tara had pleaded with Rick to try first. That's all she has to convince their leader to hear you out, to consider a peaceful resolution. But the element of surprise is crucial, leveraging their secluded position and the lack of watchful eyes to your advantage. And you're not about to risk that in hopes of persuading their leader.
Your thoughts race, contemplating strategies and approaches. Rick has his mission, and you have yours: your goal is to convince these women to join you. But unlike with the Hilltop and the Kingdom, direct manipulation is off the table; they don't care about what you have to offer.
Your gaze drifts to Rosita, who's positioned a few feet away between the trees, flanked by Jesus and Aaron, your conversation with her still fresh in your mind. Perhaps emotions will be your greatest ally in reaching these women, who have suffered unimaginable losses. Leveraging empathy, understanding, and shared experiences may be the key to forging a new alliance.
"Time's up," Rick announces, snapping your focus back to the task at hand as he gives Daryl the nod. "Hit it!" Without hesitation, Daryl presses the button, triggering a loud BOOM—the controlled explosion reverberating across the quiet beach.
The strategy is simple, exploiting the human instinct to flee from danger. The explosion acts as a herding tool, driving the women away from their armory, right where your team positions itself to intercept them, while the other half secures the storage. It's one that minimizes confrontation and maximizes the chance of success.
"Go, go, go!" Rick commands, the team springing into action, rifles at ready. "We made a lot of noise; let's wrap this up quick so we can redirect anything coming this way." His words blur into the background noise.
Amid the chaos, you move with a slow, controlled step, your demeanor calm and deliberate, reminiscent of how your father used to walk. The air thickens with the aftermath of the explosions, screams piercing through, mingling with the pungent scent of gunpowder. Ahead, the scene unfolds rapidly as a group of women rushes forward, only to be met with the ambush orchestrated by Rick and your crew. Each step you take unwinds in slow motion as you descend the sandy path.
"We want this to go as simply and as peacefully as possible!" Rick's voice booms, as the women are ushered to their knees, some with their hands zip-tied, presumably for resisting. "No one needs to get hurt. This is about what you have, what we need!"
You stand before the women, your posture straight and authoritative, legs apart, hands behind your back, rifle slung casually. Daryl moves swiftly among them, disarming their knives with practiced ease.
"No one is taking anything!" a defiant voice calls out from your left, drawing your attention to an older woman with gray hair, presumably Natania. You observe her as she strides forward, holding Tara at gunpoint, her stance projecting the matriarchal authority of Oceanside. A young girl, no more than a teenager, with dark hair and olive skin, follows closely, her expression etched with concern.
"You need to let everyone go and leave, right now," the older woman commands as she comes to a stop a few feet away. "Or she dies." Tara looks to you, her eyes pleading for restraint despite her visible disappointment with the outcome.
"We'll leave, but not without your weapons," Rick counters unshaken by the threat.
You step forward, sensing the distress in the older woman's expression. "You must be Natania," you begin, your voice, cutting through the tension. She turns her anxious eyes to you. "Put the gun down and let's talk, woman to woman."
Natania retorts sharply, "No. Leave, now."
"Please, Natania," Tara interjects, her hand still raised in surrender, her voice desperate. "Remember what I told you; this is her. Just talk to her."
Natania regards you, as if recalling what Tara might have shared. "You must be the doctor," she acknowledges, her eyes sweeping over you. "We've heard all about you."
Then, in a sudden twist, she turns the gun around, pointing it squarely at you.
The unmistakable sharp clicking of safeties being disengaged echoes all around, as your entire group turn their weapons on Natania—the standoff for peaceful resolution shattering. Daryl's body is tense, a low growl escaping him, his crossbow positioned mere inches from Natania's head, his finger poised over the trigger.
"I know you're quite important to these people, and they won't risk your safety. So when I say leave, you leave," Natania declares, despite the threat of violence thick in the air. "We're not interested in what you're selling; we just want to be left alone. Now, get off our porch."
Your face becomes expressionless, the absolute blank look taking over. You step forward with reckless abandon, facing the gun pointed at your head. "Don't do this," you say calmly, though tension seems ready to snap. "We have snipers in the trees, prepared to take out any threat. Don't turn this into something it's not. You're going to get your people killed, so stop and let's talk."
"They want us to fight the Saviors!" The young girl standing behind Natania hollers at the gathered women of Oceanside, her voice fraught with nerves. There's a pause as the women exchange silent looks, the fear in their faces shifting.
"We tried that, and we lost," Natania states, a hard edge of defeat in her voice as her gaze sweeps over her people. "We're not doing that again. We're not putting anything else on the line, not our guns, not our safety!" Her determination is palpable, her grip on the gun tightening with renewed resolve. "Not after everything we've been through!"
Daryl's patience wears thin, the tension in his posture mirroring the charged atmosphere as he jabs his crossbow to the side of Natania's head. "It don't matter. Now, put the gun down and step back," he warns.
"Do what he says," Rick adds, his iconic silver Colt Python trained on Natania, his stance firm yet devoid of malice. "We're not your enemies."
You watch her, maintaining your composure, waiting for the inevitable outcome. The younger girl steps forward, pleading. "Gramma, please stop. Don't do this."
"Maybe we should try fighting again," one of the kneeling women whispers, looking up at their leader. That suggestion spreads like wildfire, causing a stir of murmurs, a tentative spark of rebellion against the resignation that had settled over them.
Natania's reaction is visceral, "Try?! Have you actually forgotten?!" she roars, the bravado momentarily leaving her. "After everything we've been through! Some of you actually want to fight them?! Lose everything we've built here?! Everything we sacrificed and done to get here?!" She shakes her head, her defiance crumbling for a moment to reveal the deep scars of past losses. "No, I'm going to do this! If it means I have to die to remind you, then I will! What the Saviors did to us, what we lost—"
Her words are abruptly cut off as Sasha's voice rings out from the trees, a sharp alert. "WALKERS!"
In that moment of distraction, the younger girl seizes her opportunity and acts swiftly, her fist connecting with Natania's face with a resounding thud. Natania reels from the impact, staggering backward as the gun slips from her grasp. Tara dives for it, while the younger girl catches her grandmother from the fall, who's knocked out cold.
You only get a moment to register the shock; Tara quickly reversing the roles, now holding the grandmother and daughter at gunpoint. The growls of approaching walkers fill the air, pulling your attention back to the urgent task at hand. You exchange a brief glance with Rick, silently conveying your intention. "I'll handle this," you state, nodding toward the women. "And you take that."
Rick nods in confirmation. "Michonne, Daryl, you're with me," he orders, pulling out his hatchet. "Tara, watch her back," he adds, gesturing towards you. "Alright, everyone, let's do this clean and quiet—knives only, so we don't draw any more! Let's preserve our bullets, unless it's absolutely necessary!"
Turning your attention back to the women before you, you lower yourself to your knees, retrieving a small knife from the leather strap at your waist. The women squirm and tense, their eyes darting nervously as the number of undead steadily increases.
"My name is Doctor Alice, and I'm one of the leaders of Alexandria," you announce calmly, beginning to cut the zip ties that bind the women. "I've come to ask you to join me in fighting the Saviors." As you move from one woman to the next, a subtle smirk tugs at your lips, their attention captured by the scene unfolding behind you.
They watch your group, the unexpected display of your collective strength and abilities—the growls and crunching noises, the efficiency and precision with Rick and Daryl at the forefront, Michonne's blade whistling through the air as she cleaves the undead like it's Sunday roast.
"We're going to win because we are capable of winning—with your guns, with or without you," you continue, drawing their gaze back to you. "We have other communities, people willing to fight for our cause. But more than anyone else we've come across; I want it to be with you. To win with you. You deserve to be there, to get closure, to get justice."
"You've already got our guns," one woman with a cropped haircut interjects, her tone skeptical. "So why us?"
You pause for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh. "Because I'm a woman. And because I'm one of you," you confess, your expression softening. "I know how it feels—the loss, the rage, the powerlessness, the all-consuming despair." Your gaze drops to the small blade in your hand in thought. "It seems almost trivial compared to what you've experienced, what you've all lost… I can't imagine the strength it must takes… Some of you have lost your fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons all at once."
When you look up again, vulnerability and pain radiate from you, mirrored in their collective gaze. Emotion becomes your ally in this game of chess, pieces you tactically maneuver. Coldness seeps into your bones, though your face says otherwise. "There was a moment where I thought that would be me too… Negan gave me a choice, three options—I could marry him, be one of his many wives, or I could pick between my brother or husband. At that moment, I would have given myself, my body, anything really, to keep them safe."
You pause and glance back, ensuring Daryl is out of earshot despite the chaos of walkers. Your voice drops to a whisper as you meet their gaze, a confession of a moment when everything you loved was on the line. "But I was pregnant. And I was afraid… afraid of what they'd do to me or to my baby."
The women exchange glances, some of them mothers who have faced their own unimaginable losses at the hands of the Saviors. They understand the depth of your words all too well. "They were going to kill them both, and I had the choice to save one. If I didn't decide, I was going to lose them both. And I…" Your voice cracks, and for a moment, you're transported back to that agonizing moment—Jamie's big brown eyes wide and frozen, the weight of the gun heavy in your hand, blood soaking into the concrete, Rosita's scream echoing in the distance.
"And you picked," the woman with cropped hair whispers, less a question than a statement.
You look away, tears brimming in your eyes. "I picked. They made me…" Your face contorts as you wrestle with real emotions beyond your tactical display, the atmosphere tightening around you. "In the end, it was all for nothing. The sacrifice, the pain, it was all for absolutely nothing." You steal a glance at Daryl, confirming his continued distraction, as you force the words out. "It all got to me—the stress, the grief, the guilt. My body couldn't hold it together, and I lost my baby too."
"Now all I feel is this all-consuming rage… but what we lost, this feeling of…" Your voice trails off, choked with emotion, only for a gentle hand to land on your tightly clenched fist. Slowly, you lift your gaze to see an older woman reaching out from among the group, tears glistening in her own. And just like that, they all reach out to you, hands on your shoulder, on each other's— a circle of women who have faced the same trial. "I suppose we are bonded by our pain, dealt to us by the same hand."
You shake your head, harshly wiping away your tears. "I want you to know, you're not alone anymore. You're not helpless anymore! You don't have to be scared anymore! Hide anymore!" Your voice rises with each sentence, speaking through your tears. "Fight with me, and I'll fight for you! For all those we lost! Together, we can show the Saviors what the wrath of a woman looks like! Stand with me! Help me win!"
The air hangs heavy with anticipation, and you suddenly become aware of the silence, the walkers dispatched, as the gaze of your companions bore into your back, waiting, watching. The eyes of the Oceanside women seem to harden with resolve, and for a moment, you think you have convinced them, only for a single, weary voice to cut through.
"No." Natania objects as she slowly rises, her age evident as she cradles her bruised head in one hand. You realize she has heard everything you've said. "We're not fighting," she declares, resignation in her words. With heavy steps, she moves away. "Take the damn guns if you like, but we're not doing this again."
"Grandma…" the young girl pleads, her eyes following her grandmother's retreat.
"No! We're not fighting!" Natania's voice trails off into the distance. "Just leave us."
"Cyndie…" Tara whispers, as if her soft plea could change the outcome.
The young girl, Cyndie, looks up at Tara, then lets out a sigh. "I can't," she admits, her words sealing the fate of your proposition. "If it's not all of us, then it's none of us."
Disappointment washes over you as you take a deep breath. When you exhale, you reach for the older woman who had comforted you earlier. This time it's you who places your hand on hers, squeezing gently. "It's okay. I understand," you say, determined. "I will win for us. I will make them pay. I promise." With a final, firm nod to the women of Oceanside, you rise and turn away.
You don't look at anyone as you start walking back the way you came, your gaze focused on nothing in particular, but you do catch Daryl in your peripheral vision saying something to Rick before he chases after you.
"Hey—Hey—what happened there?" he asks, matching your stride and wrapping his arm around you to stop you. He scans your face, his expression softening at whatever he sees. "You good?"
"Yeah," you reply, turning back to your path, the effort to maintain composure evident in your tight nod. "I honestly thought they were going to join us." The vulnerability of your appeal to Oceanside, despite its tactical nature, had left you feeling raw.
'You are the conqueror.' You remind yourself not to let emotions overtake you.
His hand rubs your side. "Sweetheart, ya tried your best… We got them guns; that's what we came for." Daryl's words, meant to comfort, do little to ease the sting of rejection.
Your walk brings you back to the sandy beach where the canoes are parked. Standing there, you gaze at the blue, murky water, your thoughts as restless as the waves. As Daryl pulls you close, you rest your head on his shoulder, tucking your body against his side, the scent of him taking you back to the last time you were on a beach.
"Do you remember the last time we were on a beach?" you find yourself asking.
"Yeah," Daryl hums, a smile touching his features. "It was the first and only time I had tofu lasagna, was like eatin' a sponge dipped in tomato sauce."
You snort, unable to suppress a smile. "Yet if I remember correctly, you ate the whole bowl."
"Yeah, well, hunger'll make ya do crazy things."
You chuckle softly, a note of nostalgia in your voice as you murmur, "Look at us now, who would have thought we'd be here?" The last time you were on a beach, you stood waist-deep in the water, tears streaming down your face, holding a box full of letters you had written to him. And here you are now, on the same East Coast beach—the same waters that witnessed your personal grief, a poignant moment of letting go framed by the vast, indifferent sea.
You sigh deeply as you wrap your arms around his waist. Standing here with Daryl, the contrast between then and now is stark—a testament to the journeys both of you have undertaken, the battles fought, and the love that has endured.
But the moment of reflection is brief, as the beach buzzes with activity, the task at hand pulling you both back. As the group reconvenes, hands full of guns, Daryl joins to help, and you retreat to the shade of the trees, watching as preparations are made for the journey back. Two people at a time climb into the canoes with the guns to transfer them to the RV and the convoy of cars waiting across the shallow water, near the bridge. Soon, you see Rick approaching with his characteristic sheriff's stride, Tara by his side, their hands also full.
He gives you a nod of affirmation, and you push up, heading toward Aaron's lonely canoe, ready for the next step in the plan.
"WAIT!" A sudden outcry slices through the beach, pulling your attention sharply toward the source. It's Cyndie and the women of Oceanside, hastening across the sand in a speedy run. "WAIT FOR US!"
Daryl drops what he's doing, swinging his crossbow from his back as he rushes toward you, preparing for any threat. He positions himself protectively near you, and Rick's gaze meets yours, a silent query passing between you as you both halt, awaiting the intent behind this unexpected rally.
"We want to come with you!" Cyndie manages between labored breaths, her group coming to a stop before you. A quick scan reveals their hastily packed belongings, each carrying a backpack and sharp homemade spears likely for handling the dead. "We want to be there when you win," she declares, a brief look back at her companions solidifying her statement, determination etched on their faces. "When we win."
"Really?" you ask, surprised, catching the smile that breaks across Rick's and Tara's faces. So, you have reached them after all.
Cyndie nods firmly. "A few of us are staying back to look after the young ones and our home. But the rest of us want to fight. Some of us have been waiting a long time for this opportunity," she says, her voice brave, her eyes bright. "I'm Cyndie, by the way."
"Hi Cyndie, Tara told me much about you," you respond, glancing at Tara who seems to be vibrating with excitement.
"Ahem," a voice clears their throat behind Cyndie's back. She glances back to see the same woman with short hair from earlier, with an impatient look on her face. "Oh, this is Beatrice," Cyndie introduces, and the woman gives you a curt nod.
"We got our own boat, if you could just point us where we're going." Beatrice states, practical and to the point in a way that reminds you of Rosita.
"I'll do it!" Tara shrieks with eagerness, only to clear her throat and try again more composedly. "I-I will show 'em," she volunteers, ready to lead the way.
You sit in the passenger seat of the RV, Rick at the wheel. Ahead, Daryl's motorcycle paves the way, leading the convoy. The vehicles are not only packed with Alexandrians and your newly acquired weaponry but also with the women of Oceanside, now cramped among your ranks.
Your legs jitter involuntarily, tapping nervously against your seat, eyes fixed on Daryl and the open road. Thoughts swirl through your mind, tangled like chess pieces on a board missing half its pawns. Rick had mentioned he found 63 guns from his search, surrendering 43 to the Scavengers and keeping only 10 for your group—the very guns he'd used to leverage Oceanside. Now, with all these new firearms—enough to build an army for your war—the idea of just handing them over gnaws at you.
Rick's hand suddenly lands on your bouncing knee, his touch sharp but grounding. Surprised, you turn toward him, catching a flicker of concern in his eyes, as if your restlessness is making him anxious. "I can hear your brain grinding," he states, his eyebrow arched inquisitively.
"Ah?"
"You've been quiet the whole way," he notes, giving your knee a gentle squeeze before retracting his hand. "So, what are you thinking?"
You exhale slowly, the words not quite ready to form. "Let me take the lead on this drop-off," you find yourself saying, turning more fully to face him. "I want to meet this Jadis before we hand over our guns."
Rick nods, nudging his chin forward. "Well, you don't have to wait too long," he replies as he maneuvers the RV around a bend. "We're here."
Leaning forward, you press your face close to the windshield for a better view, your eyes widening at the sight of the towering garbage heaps that loom ahead, growing ever larger as you approach. You glance at Rick, but he's focused on steering the vehicle into a makeshift parking spot.
You take his lead when he opens the door and hops out. You grab your rifle, sandwiched between your legs, and step out, only to jerk back. The pungent aroma of decayed flesh and garbage, cooking under the afternoon sun, assaults your senses—the smell overwhelming the sight. "Oh god," you mumble to yourself.
The convoy grinds to a stop as well, each vehicle disgorging its passengers into the wasteland. A few Alexandrians, along with the Oceanside women, look around with the same grim expression as yours. Rick immediately takes charge, issuing commands for unloading the weaponry, while Daryl secures his bike and joins you. His expression shifts when he notices your furrowed brow. "Whatcha thinkin'?" he echoes Rick's earlier question.
Your eyes scan the surroundings—unable to fully process what you're seeing—when a creak of noise echoes. A shipping container, buried beneath the garbage, slowly opens, revealing what you assume to be an entrance.
"I don't know yet," you whisper back, observing the blank faces and soiled clothes of the figures emerging. "But something doesn't feel right."
Rick, now shouldering a load of guns, leads the group towards the shipping container, the path clearly too narrow for the RV. One by one, your people follow, exiting the RV with guns slung over their shoulders or held cautiously by their sides.
"I guess we'll see," you murmur to Daryl, giving him a meaningful look before catching up to Rick, your steps deliberate, your mind racing, as Daryl turns to assist with the unloading.
When you step past the shipping container, the landscape unexpectedly opens into a clearing, framed by towering garbage piles. The air is thick with the stifling stench, but what's more oppressive is the silence that envelops the crowd of people with blank expressions, all seemingly awaiting your group's arrival.
A tall woman with box-dyed orange and blonde hair steps forward from the group, flanked by an older man with hollow cheeks and a blonde woman with her hair neatly pulled back. This must be Jadis, the leader of this unusual community—the Scavengers.
"Rick," the woman greets, her gaze sweeping over your group and the guns you've brought. A hint of approval flickers across her face as her lips curve into a subtle, impressed smile.
"Jadis," Rick responds, his smile widening as he hoists the guns in his arms like a trophy. "I kept my word—you asked for more guns—we've brought more guns. This is how we're going to win," he declares with pride.
Noticing your presence beside him, Rick introduces you, "Oh, this is Dr. Alice."
You step forward, legs spread shoulder-width, chin up, intentionally positioning yourself to assert your authority, subtly shifting Rick behind you. Jadis's eyes flicker between you and Rick, gauging the dynamic. "I thought you lead," she comments, addressing Rick but glancing back at you.
"I do," Rick responds quickly. "She leads too."
Jadis's attention shifts back to you. You meet her gaze directly, slowly scanning her from head to toe, taking in her heavy black attire and your noticeable height difference. "So you want to fight with us?" you challenge, keeping your tone neutral.
"Rick offer deal, we take," Jadis replies in a clipped, matter-of-fact manner.
"And you live here?" you question, gesturing towards the endless heaps of garbage that surround you.
"All of us, here, since the change," she responds, her broken speech patterns adding a starkness to her words.
"This whole time you've been here?" You can't mask your surprise, struggling to comprehend why anyone would choose to live here.
"Yes," she nods simply. "We take. We don't bother."
That phrase strikes you like a bat to the head, a realization dawning on you like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place. "Say that again?" you ask, stunned, suddenly seeing everything you've been missing like a move on a chessboard.
"We take. We don't bother," Jadis repeats like it's their motto, casually flicking her hand up, indicating her people to proceed with collecting the guns.
"STOP!" Your commanding shout cuts through the air, halting everyone in their tracks. The celebratory chatter behind you ceases abruptly, the atmosphere instantly turning tense.
You look at Jadis with a tilt of your chin, hand fisting at your side. "I want to apologize in advance for wasting your time, but the deal's off," you announce, your voice loud and clear. As you glance at the scavengers and the guns in their arms, your rage falls over your nerves like a blanket. "We will be taking back our guns now. ALL our guns."
"Alie—" Rick starts to intervene…
"Deal is deal," Jadis interjects coolly.
You close the distance between yourself and Jadis, stepping directly into her personal space. "I don't know what kind of impression Rick gave you, but you didn't make this deal with me," you state, your hand drifting to your rifle, the audible click of the safety being disengaged underscoring your words. "Now, the guns—hand them over.".
Jadis's hand rests on the handgun tucked into her belt, and in that moment, the guns in Daryl's arm hit the ground with a loud clatter, echoing sharply as he swiftly brings his crossbow up, aiming it straight at Jadis's head. Almost instantaneously, chaos erupts—guns thudding to the ground as your team frees their hands to raise their weapons, and so do the Scavengers in return. Sasha and Rosita, rifles raised, quickly flank Daryl on each side.
"WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!" Rick's voice booms through the standoff, as he hastily hands off the guns he's carrying to Michonne, before sliding between you and Jadis. His hands press against both your chests, arms outstretched to separate you. "Hold it! HOLD IT!"
The tension in the air is palpable, like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap. "Alie, what are you doing?" Rick hisses close to your ear, pushing you back further, his arm securing tight around your waist. "You know we need the numbers, and now we've got the guns. This is it."
You whirl on him, your anger flaring. "She told you—are you even listening? Or does she need to spoon-feed you as well?" you snap back sharply. "She takes, she doesn't bother. She takes the deal, takes the guns; why would she bother fighting for you? What are you going to do when she has the guns and doesn't show up? Going to start another war?"
Rick's response is just as heated. "You heard her, a deal is a deal. She's fighting for the same thing we are. What we're going to gain when we win—food, fuel, vehicles—she wants a piece of the spoils of war. One-third, that's what I promised. That's her share."
Your frustration boils over. "When we first went to the Hilltop, if you knew what you know now about the Saviors, would you have made the deal to take out the satellite station?" You challenge him, your voice rising with each word. "Would you have risked our people's lives?"
Rick stands his ground. "Yet we still did it; we knew it was dangerous, and we did it."
"Because we were fighting for something! We were building to grow—a future for Judith, for Carl, for all of us. We cared about the quality of life and how we wanted to live it." Your hands grasp his shirt, shaking him slightly to emphasize your point. "Look around, we're in a fuckin' dumpster Rick! Does this look like the kind of people who care? Care enough to die for it?"
Rick glances around, his bright blue eyes reflecting his desperation. You know he invested everything for this alliance, worked hard for it, so you breathe deeply and soften your tone, appealing to the core of the man you know him to be. "We went through something traumatic. We all lost something—the Hilltop, Alexandria, Oceanside, even the Kingdom. We're all fighting for something beyond just the spoils of war. What is she really risking her people for? Think about it, Rick."
Rick's trust in you has always been a cornerstone of your relationship, but now, after everything you've been through, you wonder if he's starting to doubt you. "Come on, Rick," you whisper, your words almost a plea. "She is using you."
"Alie." Rick sighs your name, his tone weary.
"I know. I'm sorry, but this ain't it," you insist gently, shaking your head.
When Rick turns to face Jadis, his expression hardens. "I'm sorry, but the deal is off," he declares firmly.
A flicker of something—perhaps defiance—crosses Jadis's face. "You take no gun here. All my guns now," she retorts sharply.
With no one to hold you back this time, you round on her. "You were never going to fight for us, were you? You haven't even tried to argue what I've said." You pace closer, anger sharpening your words. "Do you have any idea the kind of risk we took to get these guns? The danger we put ourselves in?!" Images flash through your mind—Rick and Michonne vulnerable while scavenging, you and Daryl exposed to the Saviors on the journey to Oceanside, the potential for a bloody confrontation there.
Jadis's nostrils flare, her hand tightening on her gun. Your eyes narrow, seething with dark promise. "I dare you, go ahead, draw your gun," you hiss, your voice low and dangerous. "I've been craving blood for some time now, and I don't care where I get it from. So, go ahead, knock yourself out!"
The silence is palpable, everyone holding their breath as you step far too close into her personal space, looking up at her towering figure. "I am not Rick. You mean nothing to me. Nothing. A contemptible roach scurrying beneath the garbage. And I will fuckin' step on you. You choose which way this goes."
Jadis holds your gaze, her jaw flexing, the public insult tightening the screws of her restraint. Yet, her gaze shifts—first to Daryl, who's hardly contained, breathing hard, the tip of his arrow mere inches from her face, his finger twitching on the trigger, then to the rest of your group arrayed behind you, a clear display of force. Outnumbered and outgunned, she makes the only decision she can in that moment.
She releases her grip on her gun, slowly raising her arms in surrender. "Tamiel," she commands sharply. The blonde woman beside her lowers her weapon in turn, and like dominoes, her people follow suit.
There is a pause… and the tension breaks like a storm passing.
Rick steps forward to reclaim his guns, shoulders slightly sagging, a frustrated exhale escaping his lips. You don't miss a beat, reaching forward to snatch the handgun from Jadis's pants. "If I see you sniffing around my gate again, I'll personally put a bullet between your eyes, you understand me? You've been warned."
By the time you walk out of the Junkyard, your arms are heavy with more guns than you had entered with. Standing by the RV, you pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling the weight of the day's events as you watch your group unloading everything back into the vehicles. Rick approaches, his face etched with exhaustion, followed by the core members of your team.
"So, now what?" he asks, the tiredness in his voice mirroring his expression.
You survey the group, noting the anticipation on their faces. "Well, we have all these guns, I say we arm Maggie—arm the Hilltop. Maybe they can give us some food in exchange; we have more mouths to feed now." You turn to Jesus, who has been quietly observing from a distance. "What do you think?"
His response comes with an approving grin. "Oh, hell yeah. If we get guns, you're definitely getting some food."
You and Rick exchange a look, and with his nod, the plan is set. You understand that this could legitimize Alexandria's alliance with the Hilltop and perhaps even bolster Maggie's leadership.
As you climb back into the RV for the drive back to Hilltop, Rick leans over from the driver's seat. "Did I tell you about the crates of food we found?" he says casually, a hint of mischief in his tone.
"What?" you ask, surprised.
He smirks, a coy expression playing on his lips. "Yeah, one of those military-grade, ready-to-eat meals. So, even if Hilltop can't spare any, I think we'll be alright for now."
As the RV's engine roars to life, pulling you away from the dump, Jadis watches your departure standing atop a pile of scraps, her gaze sharp and calculating. She turns to her lieutenants, "Brion, Tamiel," she calls, her voice steady yet concealing her infuriation. "Get the car."
Her command is simple, yet the three share a look, understanding the implications of their next moves as they prepare to enact the plan they had intended all along.
"The enemy of my enemy… is my friend," Jadis murmurs to herself, a dark smirk curling the corners of her mouth.
Gregory watches the scene unfold from the safety of his office window, his face a mask of apprehension, the lines deepening as he observes the group from Alexandria unloading weaponry—guns—into the hands of his people. Despite the security these arms might provide, Gregory sees them as harbingers of disaster. To him, they are not tools of safety but instruments that could potentially escalate conflicts and bring unwanted attention—or worse, retaliation—from the Saviors.
The Hilltop residents seem to rally around Maggie, some placing supportive hands on her shoulders, their gestures speaking volumes about the changing dynamics within the community. With each affirming touch, Gregory feels his influence slipping like sand through his fingers.
Frustration and fear knot in his stomach, and deep hatred culminating for the woman—he never should have let her through his gates, no matter what sappy story she told. Now, with the arrival of these weapons, the foolish chatter of resistance and rebellion that has been buzzing like a swarm of relentless mosquitoes is suddenly no longer just talk.
Gregory brings a clear glass of Gin to his lips, gulps it down in one shot, the anxiety, stress, and politicking making him feel as if he has aged years in just a matter of weeks. With a heavy sigh, he steps back from the curtain, his hand slipping into the front pocket of his suit to retrieve a small, neatly folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he reveals an address—the location of the Sanctuary—information Simon had provided him with, should the need arise.
His mind races with dark thoughts as he considers his options. Kneeling to the Saviors, serving the devil he knows, might be his only chance to retain any semblance of control—or so he tells himself. In his eyes, aligning with Simon and the Saviors might be the only way to prevent the bloody conflict that seems inevitable now that Maggie is armed. This way, he can eliminate her before she leads him and his people to their death.
Standing there, the paper growing damp in his sweaty grip, Gregory wonders if it's time to make the trip to the Sanctuary, to kneel before Simon and secure his place, whatever the cost. The decision looms large, filled with ominous portents, but Gregory feels it tightening around him like a noose. He knows he must act soon.
Merle shifts uncomfortably, positioned at the foot of the Saviors' meeting room table. Beside him, Dwight remains silent, his body taut with tension. At the far end of the long, metal table, Negan reclines with a predatory ease, his booted foot casually propped up as he busies himself with oiling his bat, Lucille. The sharp, pungent scent of mineral oil permeates the room, growing more suffocating with each silent moment that passes.
"How fuckin' hard is it to find two people?" Negan's voice slices lazily through the silence, his eyes barely lifting from his task. "I mean, seriously, it's like pulling teeth with rusty pliers."
Merle has been partnered with Dwight to track down Daryl and Alie. He suspects he knows exactly where they might be hiding, which is why he's been playing a dangerous game. Ever since Negan burned Doctor Carson alive, the pressure to perform has been immense. Yet, Merle has been cleverly redirecting the searches in completely opposite directions, striving to keep them safe for as long as possible. However, with each day they return empty-handed is another day his risk of exposure grows.
In an attempt to diffuse the escalating tension, Merle adopts his usual laid-back demeanor. "My baby brother's a hunter and tracker," he drawls, casually leaning against the table. "He ain't gonna let us sniff him out unless he wants us to."
Negan's reaction is swift; the bat and rag are suddenly forgotten as he rounds on Merle, his feet hitting the floor with a resounding thud. "You're his damn brother, for crying out loud!" he barks, the playful mischief that usually plays across his features now replaced by a hard, uncompromising anger. "What the hell good are you to me if you can't even find your own damn flesh and blood? You're a hunter, ain't cha? A tracker? Then do your goddamn job!"
"I ain't sayin' I can't track 'em down. But it's gonna take a whole lot of time and sweat—we're talkin' weeks, hell, maybe months." Merle counters, glancing at Dwight for any sign of support. "I'm just sayin', instead of chasin' shadows out there, we could be right here, lending a hand where it's needed. Think about it—make better use of the resources instead of chasin' my brother's tail all over God's green Earth."
Negan's response is immediate and violent. BANG! The sound reverberates through the room as he slams his bat against the metal table, causing oil to spill over its surface, startling both Merle and Dwight. "I'm the one who DECIDES what's a waste of resources around here! NOT you!" he roars, his voice a clear warning that his patience has worn thin.
Merle's expression shifts as he backpedals. "Alright. You're the boss," he concedes, taking a cautious step back. Negan slowly settles back down, his grip on Lucille loosening slightly, but his gaze never leaving Merle.
"I'mma need a team of ten," Merle continues, throwing out plans on the fly in hopes of dissuading them. "And if I know my brother half as well as I think I do, he'll be headin' straight for DC, thinkin' he's smarter than us, reckonin' we won't dare to follow."
"DC? That's suicide," Dwight interjects, having been silent until now, attempting to divert Negan's attention away from himself, especially after his own disastrous search for his missing wife, who vanished the same day as Daryl, now confirmed dead. "The whole city is crawling with the dead."
"Yeah, you got that right," Merle agrees, spinning his bullshit. "My brother is good out there, quick on his feet, even with his ol' lady trudgin' along. He knows we ain't gonna catch 'em out there, not unless we're ready to spill a whole lotta blood."
Dwight opens his mouth to respond, but the conversation is abruptly cut off by the door swinging open.
"Oh, that won't be necessary," Simon announces as he strides in with his characteristic swagger, a tall woman with a long face and short two-toned hair in tow. "Boy, do I have somethin' you might want to hear, boss."
His smile is wide, brimming with mischief as he addresses Negan. "We've got ourselves a visitor, says her name's Jadis, and she wants to be our new friend, ain't that right?" he says jovially, slinging an arm around the woman, who visibly recoils from his touch. "Turns out she had a little powwow with Rick and his merry band of misfits today. And lo and behold, guess who showed up at their little party? Go on, sweetheart, tell him whatcha told me."
With a disdainful flick of her fingers, Jadis removes Simon's arm from her shoulders as if discarding something foul. She steps forward to the table, meeting Negan's curious gaze. "A woman—a doctor, and a man with a crossbow. He guarded her, very protective." She reports, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Me, you, we make a deal now. I talk everything after."
Simon's face transforms into one of triumph as he exchanges a knowing look with Negan, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively. "Well, how about that, huh?"
That night, Merle finds himself caught up in the Saviors' bustling preparations, a prisoner of circumstance as much as he is of Negan's camp. He has no moment to himself, no chance to slip away or send a warning to Alie or Rick—not with Simon looming large beside him, clutching a half-empty bottle of tequila in one hand and a long to-do-list in the other. After all, they have much to prepare.
It's dark when the RV, leading the convoy, pulls up to the gates of Alexandria. Gabriel, who is on watch, hurries to open the gate. Drained from the day's events, you disembark from the passenger seat and head toward Daryl, who kicks his motorcycle onto its stand. Suddenly, Gabriel rushes to your side. "Alie!" he exclaims, his smile wide, suggesting he's surprised at seeing you. "Welcome home," he says, pulling you into an unexpected hug.
"Oh, thank you, Gabe," you respond, patting his back awkwardly.
"Gabriel?" Rick's voice calls out as he rounds the vehicle, with the rest of the group beginning to unload. The women from Oceanside look around their new surroundings with curiosity, despite the darkness.
"All is well, Rick," Gabriel assures, his attention shifting from the newcomers to the weapons being unloaded. His expression shifts momentarily to one of astonishment before returning to you with a hint of hesitation. "But... you should know, your timing is impeccable," he starts, his voice tinged with reluctance. "There's someone here to see you... He came asking to get a message out to you."
You and Rick exchange a puzzled look, wondering who could be here to see you, and more crucially, who knows that you're here. "Gaaabe?" you probe, noticing the troubled look on the priest's face.
"Before you say anything, just hear him out," Gabriel pleads.
"What did you do, Gabriel?" Rick demands, his firm tone catching the attention of the rest of your core group, who gather closer, their faces etched with confusion.
"I took a leap of faith," Gabriel responds cryptically. "He's in the prison."
Unsure of what to expect, you watch as Rick strides towards the prison cell with determined frustration. "Get the women settled in some of the empty houses," you instruct Gabriel, quickly following to catch up with Rick and the rest of your group.
The anticipation is palpable as you descend the stairs to the dark basement that houses the prison. Nothing, however, could prepare you for the moment Rick swings the prison gate open, revealing the figure that hesitantly steps out from the shadows—Dwight's scarred face looking hollow under the dim light.
The sudden primal growl from Daryl catches you off guard, and you don't even realize how close he's standing until he lunges at Dwight with such ferocity that you're knocked sideways, stumbling to regain your footing.
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Rick's voice echoes through the corridor, frantic for the second time that day as he, Jesus, and Aaron struggle to restrain Daryl. Dwight staggers back into the shadows of the cell, far from Daryl's enraged grasp.
You wonder what desperate gamble has brought him here, knowing full well how Daryl feels about him, how much of what happened he attributes to not killing him, and whether tonight might be the night Daryl fulfills his longstanding vendetta.
"He wants to help us!" Gabriel's voice rises over the commotion, and you turn, surprised to find him right behind you. You wonder if he's delegated his earlier task to someone else so he could follow you as well. "Please, just hear him out!"
Rick manages to pull Daryl back just enough to regain some control. "Is that true?" he demands from Dwight, his voice low and dangerous.
Dwight nods, his swallow audible, his eyes reflecting the gravity of his precarious situation. "Yeah, I do."
"Okay." Rick nods, a calm menace in his voice. "Then get on your knees," he orders, drawing his Colt Python and aiming it at Dwight with chilling nonchalance.
"I wanna talk to her," Dwight starts, beginning to kneel, but he barely bends his knees before Daryl lunges at him again. With a surge of force, he slams him against the brick wall, pressing his forearm chokingly against Dwight's throat, his hunting knife glittering dangerously close to his eyes.
You exhale deeply, aware that your day is far from over, as you push through the crowd at the door. "What do you want?"
Dwight's reply is retched and desperate, his voice strained under Daryl's iron grip. "You have to understand! You have to!" he gasps, his face reddening from the effort to speak. "Everything I did, I had no choice! He had my wife, and he owned me! Just like he would have owned you! Everything I did was for her! I know you get it, 'cause you did it too!"
"Shut up!" Daryl's voice is a raspy snarl, pressing Dwight harder against the wall. "Shut the fuck up!"
But Dwight presses on, his voice growing louder, desperate to convince you before Daryl ends the conversation permanently. "She's gone now! She freed Daryl and got away, and I think she did that because of you! You made choices she thought were impossible to make! You did it, so she made 'em too! So I'm here now!"
"How did you get out?"
"Sherry."
"Daryl," you whisper, gently pressing your hand on his shoulder to coax him back.
"You're not actually listening to him, are you?" Tara cuts in, her voice pitched high with disbelief. "He killed Denise!"
"If you wanna end it this way, go right ahead," Dwight pleads, his voice tinged with genuine regret as he struggles for air. "I'm sorry, I really am. I can't change everything I did; I can't take it back." Tears start to well in his eyes, betraying the tough façade he's trying to maintain. "My wife… I don't think she'll make it out there all alone, and... I have nothing left to lose."
You observe his tear-streaked, scarred face, your mind replaying the horrors you witnessed at the Sanctuary—the red-hot iron glowing in the flames, the screams, the smell of burnt flesh that clung to your senses long after. You tug a little harder on Daryl, and finally, he steps back, breathing heavily, his body still coiled with unresolved anger.
Dwight sucks in a deep breath, rubbing his throat. "Please, I wanna help you," he manages to say after a moment, wiping his cheeks. "I want Negan dead. I want all of it to stop."
You recall the tormented look on Dwight's face when he saw Negan kissing Sherry— you realize, despite your reservations, you can relate and understand his actions: He sacrificed everything for his wife, endured pain, committed atrocities—all under Negan's command. Now, with her gone, he's a man left with nothing but his regrets.
"Okay," you accept softly.
"It could be a trick," Rick's skeptical voice murmurs from behind you. "He could be here trying to get your location."
"It's not," you sigh, holding Dwight's gaze.
"I'm not," Dwight confirms, his eyes shifting from Rick to you, before he drops a bombshell you hadn't expected. "Negan already knows she's here, what you've been up to, your plan to fight the Saviors." Seeing your startled expression, he elaborates. "A woman came by today, tall, talks weird. She said her name was Jadis."
"Jadis?" you echo, glancing at Rick, who closes his eyes in frustration.
"Yeah. She said that you've got guns, lots of 'em," Dwight continues, eager to prove his loyalty. "That's why I came to warn you—Negan is coming here tomorrow, to get the drop on you before you drop on him."
Your mind races, processing the information, considering whether Negan might show up under the guise of collecting tribute only to launch an attack. You're not ready, not by a long shot.
Dwight leans in, his voice low and urgent. "But he doesn't know—that you know—that he knows. I can slow them down, buy you as much time as I can to prepare. We have a chance to end this tomorrow. Kill him. Once he's gone, we can drive the trucks back, and I can get you inside the Sanctuary. You can take it by force if you have to, get the workers on our side, build our numbers. After that, we go outpost by outpost, and end this."
Rick steps closer to Dwight, interest lighting his eyes despite the gravity of the situation. "Keep talking," he prompts.
You're not ready. Regardless of the plan or the guns, it's too close. You suppose you have no choice, but only a few short hours.
Notes: So, rewatching the Oceanside episode, I was thinking, 'Rick, why are you wasting bullets to kill like 20-30 walkers, when the group has taken on hundreds before?' Also, with Jadis, she really told him, 'she takes, she doesn't bother.'